There's a lethargy that sleeps in my chest,
Dreaming in his rest
That I will never again pursue
Such wakefulness.

His slumber and sloth tires me into apathy
And a very special brand of fear.
So I'll close my eyelids, like drawing curtains
Across windows,
And I'll close my mouth, like drawing the bolt
Across the door.

It's not that I'm afraid of what may escape;
I am afraid of what may find its way inside
To crawl across this bloodied floor.

The dreams of this lethargy live in my veins,
Spreading such sweet poison – selfishness –
As myself absorbs me
Into the abyss.

I'll choke on my silent apologies,
On the wit I spew instead;
I'll drown in my own damnation,
Casting stones at my own head.

My heartbeat is lacklustre,
My pulse so lazy and my conscience
Is putrid with hedonistic fantasy.

I'm sorry I can't be what you need me to be.